


In The Still Of The Night

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:17:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15994085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: (With deep gratitude to The Five Satins who performed this song and brought this story to life.  Please listen to the Utube version of the song.)





	In The Still Of The Night

In the still of the night, when there is only the night air, the moonlight, where there is quiet all around - when there is nothing but your own thoughts and the whisper of your breathing and the steady thud of your heartbeat - when reality is ephemeral at best, perhaps your mind can see things more clearly. At least, that's the way I've always found it. Problem is, 'quiet' doesn't always mean 'quiet', if you know what I mean.

If there was any place that was 'quiet' without BEING quiet, it was a wooden barracks in a prisoner-of-war camp. We weren't allowed to make noise after lights out, "There Is To Be QUIET!" - that was the rule. That meant no talking or laughing, no music, none of that stuff. There were sounds, of course. There were the shouts of the guards as they did their usual sounding-off as they announced their checkpoints, went on and off duty. There was the hiss of the big lights on the guard towers, poorly wired, poorly maintained, always ready to go out with a booming, sparking complaint. There was the tramping outside at the change of the guard, especially when one of the guards was Schultz. Boy, poor ole Schultzie, he sounded like a baby elephant even when he tiptoed, ya know? There were the various night sounds of a number of men sharing the same space, the snores and snuffles, the moans and groans and the occasional more rude, maybe even embarrassing noises that no one ever discussed, the crackle of the mattresses stuffed with wood-shavings as the men shifted in their bunks. If it was raining, you had the splatter or deluge of raindrops on the wooden roof, and invariably the drip-drip-drip of where the wooden roof failed to hold off the rain and it hit on the board floor underneath us; that is, when it didn't hit on the guys in the top bunks, and then you heard the cursing as they came awake to the additional misery inflicted on them. If the wind was blowing really hard, you heard the roof and walls creaking and sometimes wondered if the place would still be standing come morning.

Carter reflected, trying to keep the panic at bay. In the daytime, he liked the sound of people around him, didn't notice the walls so much, but at night, well at times like this, he longed for the silence, the freedom of his home even more than usual. Both homes, actually. In the Dakotas, on the reservation, he could sleep out under the stars if he wanted to, his family understanding his need for the open air around him. It might have gotten cold, but it was special and he could think better after spending a night under the stars, make better sense of things. At his mom's home, the home they shared together, just the two of them, after his dad had passed, his room in the attic had given him at least a taste of what he longed for. No, he didn't HAVE to sleep up there; he could have moved to one of the rooms downstairs; his mom would have been fine with that, but he'd chosen that room when they'd first moved here, the three of them. It was a tiny bare room, but it had windows on each side that could open to the night air, and even a trap-door to the roof, and he'd had as much freedom as you could expect indoors. If he opened that trap-door and all the windows, it was almost like sleeping outside.

Now, here in Barracks 2 of Stalag 13, he felt the walls closing in on him. He listened, identified every snore, every grunt and groan. He knew he would be able to identify each of them years down the road, just by those night sounds, even if his sight was taken from him. They were his friends, or at least, his barracks-mates if not his friends. Andrew Carter divided people into strict, though adaptable units: there were friends, friendly people he could get along with, unfriendly people he would try and move to the next category up if possible, those people he reluctantly decided he didn't have enough time or energy to make that happen, and, finally, those he had no impulse to turn into anything other than someone he wanted to avoid at all costs. Funny, he'd tried to talk about that to Newkirk and LeBeau once, and they'd looked at him like he was nuts. Well, maybe he was, but it sure seemed doggone clear to him. Like he knew that the two of them were in that first group, always would be, no matter what. Just like he knew Major Hochstetter would always be in the last group. Easy peasy, no thought involved. Some people, they weren't so easy, and that made him uncomfortable even to think about. Guys moving UP in the list, that was way cool, like Schultz and Langenscheidt; going the other way, that just didn't seem right somehow. He resolutely erased one name from his mind, unable to bear the discomfort, not tonight.

He felt his heart constrict as the air grew thin; he'd have given anything to be able to walk to the door, just open it, walk outside and sit on the bench along the wall. It would be cold, sure, but just to breathe the night air, see the sky, that would help. Of course, that would also get him shot, probably, which would NOT help. He sat up, gulping for air, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to escape the closeness. Tears of frustration filled his eyes and he cursed inwardly at his weakness. His whimper of desperation was inaudible, surely; he'd worked so hard at that. He wouldn't burden any of the guys, no, he refused to do that! {"And if I wake Newkirk up again, he's gonna be really annoyed. And I can understand that; I mean, it'd be the third night in a row he's been shorted on sleep, what with those last two missions and all,"} wondering if a guy could die from feeling like this.

Then a low whisper, "ei, Andrew. Switch bunks with me, okay? That crack in the wall is letting the moonlight in; driving me bonkers it is! Do a chap a favor?"

He was shaking now, struggling to get his next breath. "Come on, Andrew," Newkirk's voice now coaxing him, urging him onward. "I'll let Felix run around in my tailor shop tomorrow if you do," the voice was sincere, earnest, and that alone was enough to bring a reluctant smile to Andrew Carter's face.

"Yeah, okay, Peter. Coming up," and he found the strength to balance on the side of the bunk and pull himself up, with the help of the strong arms that reached down to him, both of them pretending not to notice how badly Andrew was shaking.

"There, see?" Newkirk complained in a low whisper, guiding Carter's trembling hand to the wide crack in the wall, where chill night air and, yes, moonlight, entered freely. "Could catch your death laying up next to that every night. I'll make it up to you, I'll . . .", only to stop when Andrew lay his forehead on Newkirk's chest in gratitude.

"Yeah, I know, you'll let Felix run around your place. He'll be real happy about that," and the younger man let his forehead rest there for just a moment longer, steadying himself, feeling those arms gently wrap themselves around him.

"'Ere, turn around, Andrew. Look at that bloody crack; pure disgrace it is, letting in all that air and light; how they expect a man to sleep, I'll never know," Newkirk murmured, though Carter was no longer listening.

He was close to that crack now, his cheek against the wood, breathing deeply, his body resting against the man so close behind him, supporting him. Somehow, he could breathe again now; there was air, there was moonlight, there was the best friend he'd ever known, there was Peter.

Somehow, Andrew now knew he was going to have to come up with a new category, realizing there was something, someone beyond that 'friend' category he'd so confidently placed some of the guys here in. A very small category, maybe, only holding Newkirk, maybe. {"Wow! How lucky can a guy get??! A whole new category of people!"}.

Newkirk held him close as Carter's breathing slowed and recovered its even, steady rhythm, smiling down at the young man he couldn't even see in the darkness, smiling as Andrew relaxed into a deep natural sleep, held tightly within his arms. {"That's right, Andrew. Sleep, I've got you safe and sound,"} knowing in his heart of hearts that wasn't true, that no one was safe and sound, in this camp, in this war, in this life. Still, he'd do the best he could; a man couldn't do any better than that. Carefully he eased the younger man down onto the bunk, as close to that crack in the wall as possible, and slid over the side of the bunk into the one below.

A sleepy voice whispered, "Pierre?"

"Just gettin comfortable, Louie. Go back to sleep."

It was years later, where he'd almost been buried in a cave-in in the cliffs behind Haven, that Andrew J Carter thought back to that night. It was Peter, once again, who'd come to his rescue, him and Caeide working together with grim resolve, had pulled him out into the air, into a place where he could breathe, had held him in strong, caring arms, reassuring him that he was safe, that all would be alright. "Relax, Andrew, we've got you safe and sound," and Andrew knew it was true, had always been true. He blinked his dust and grime filled eyes up at the two who'd dug him free, and knew he was safe, would always be safe if these two had their say about it.

He knew, once again, that he was the luckiest man who'd ever lived. He had Peter, he had Caeide and the kids. He couldn't think of anything more he could possibly ask for.


End file.
